


Dean's Tattoo

by UnadulteratedLoafing



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-05
Updated: 2013-03-05
Packaged: 2017-12-04 08:58:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/708932
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UnadulteratedLoafing/pseuds/UnadulteratedLoafing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean deals with the literal an figurative battle scars from the war with Heaven.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dean's Tattoo

They were in between jobs, staying the night in a Mississippi motel. Sam sat in the corner of the room, his face illuminated by the glow of his computer screen. Dean lay back on the bed, his hands behind his head. He been staring directly at the ceiling for ten minutes when he suddenly sat up.  
"I'm going out," he said in a gruff voice as he grabbed his jacket off the floor.  
"Dean," Sam began to plead.  
"What, Sam?" he said, shrugging his jacket over his shoulders. Dean was looking a little worse for the wear, he hadn't showered in several days and his clothes were a even more wrinkled than usual.  
Sam paused for a moment, calculating his words so not to upset his brother, "It wasn't your fault, you know."  
Dean glared at his brother and without breaking eye contact opened the door and walked right out. Sam put his head in his hands as he heard the sound of the impala pulling away.  
  
Dean found a local bar, a small wooden building that lit up the rest of the street with its neon signs advertising every kind of commercially manufactured beer. He pulled into the parking lot and was hit with the smells of cigarettes and cheap whiskey even before he entered the building. The bar was surprisingly crowded for the time of night, but he found a seat towards the back of the bar where he could keep a view on the rest of the night's crowd.  
"Can I get you something?" asked the bartender. Dean looked up and met the gaze of a man displaying the shadow of a beard with brilliant blue eyes and dark, messy hair.  
Dean's eyes wandered across the surface of the table as he spoke, "I'll just have an El Sol for now, thanks."  
  
He went home with a woman that night. He can't remember her name, it was something like Abby or Amy. She pulled his shirt over his head and gasped when he saw the black shadow that reached across his chest and down his arm.  
"Oh my God. What is it?"  
"It's a...tire track," he said, hoping that she was too preoccupied to care about his lie or that she might think it made him look edgy.  
She reached out to touch it, and he winced.

They fucked, that's all there was to it. Afterward, he lay on one side of the bed and she on the other, no touch between them. He thought about spending the night, at least having the decency to say goodbye in the morning, but he found that he couldn't spend another second in that room. He fumbled to put on his clothes and slipped out the front door. 

Before it all, Dean thought tattoos were for bikers and aspiring actresses who worked the night shift in bars. But now, he had three.

Dean was a little hesitant the first time, he didn't understand the appeal of subjecting oneself to an ink-filled needle for the sake of aesthetics, but his brother insisted. The story isn't very exciting, but the sigil on his chest is equal parts memory and function. 

The second wasn't exactly a traditional tattoo. He was dead. He can still remember hell like it was yesterday, he was absolutely, positively, dead. And then one day, he opened his eyes in a wooden coffin. That was weird, and though not a good sign, it wasn't impossible in the hunting life. What seemed impossible was the burning sensation accompanied by the handprint on his shoulder, but Dean didn't complain too much, he was just glad to have his functioning body back. Through the years, the pink scar tissue had faded to a barely noticeable silver print on his shoulder. He wasn't yet sure what he hoped would eventually happen to the third.

It was the final battle with heaven, the angel tablet would banish them all to heaven; including Cas, who was sending himself to some sort of self-exile. Dean fought with a lump in his throat, knowing that each time he caught a glimpse of Cas could very well be his last, and this made him vulnerable.  
It happened in a flash, literally. He heard him call out his name and when he turned around, Naomi stood there with an angel sword. Dean didn't need its special angel-killing powers to die, the sharpness of the blade alone would do him plenty of damage. He backed into the wall, looking up to see Castiel across the warehouse floor. Closing his eyes, he began to raise his hands in surrender when he felt the body of someone else in front of him.  
The light was bright and Dean could see Castiel's body freeze. Before he knew it, he was in his arms and the two of them had slumped to the ground.  
The black shadow of the wings was spread across the concrete floor on either side of Dean and Cas. He pressed his head to the angel's body, and began to scream. He can't even remember what happened after that; Sam dragged him away and his memory is all a blur. He knows that they won the war and they would never have to see any of the heaven-dwellers again.

It wasn't until that night when he noticed it. He stripped off his clothes to take a shower in the grimy motel bathroom and as he looked in the mirror, he froze. The black shadow of Castiel's wings spread across his chest and right arm. He turned the water on as hot as it would go, and he scrubbed furiously at the feathery black marks. He scrubbed until his skin rubbed raw and it stung when the water hit it. The small room was filled with steam and Dean slumped against the cold, tile wall, succumbing to the sobs he had been holding back all evening. He sobbed until the water turned cold and Sam pounded on the door.  
Dean could not make eye contact with his brother when he emerged from the bathroom, and even while looking at the floor, he could imagine his brother's face from the way his breathing stopped.  
That was three weeks ago. 

Dean rubbed his hands together as he walked back to the motel. He always found himself more miserable when he went out like this, trapped in the solitude of his paradoxical quest to feel less lonely. When he knocked on the door, Sam rushed to answer it, looking almost relieved when he saw his brother. Dean sheepishly made his way back to his bed, tossing his jacket on the pillow next to him.


End file.
